It was a frightful moment of doubt and agony. But I drank off the wine (which, for aught that I knew, was charged with a deadly drug), resolving to run the Cavaliere Galdino through the body, the instant I felt the least symptom of illness from it.
"Well, signori, I hope you like my favourite wine," said he, as we set down our cups; a dark smile gathering on his sombre features. But Baptistello, too, was smiling; and I gathered comfort from that. The liquor tasted like ordinary Muscatelle: a little sweeter perhaps in flavour. We had soon no doubt, from the grave, grim, and altered aspect of the cavaliere, that he had filled his own goblet with the poisoned wine intended for our destruction (as it had, perhaps, already been for others) and drugged with an infusion of Solarium, or the deadly nightshade; called Bella-donna by the Italians, because ladies make a cosmetic of the juice. I felt that our safety was entirely owing to Castelermo's presence of mind in changing the stoppers, and became deeply grateful to Varro for his tact and friendly warning.
An awkward pause ensued as we set down our cups. It was a grave moment for us all: we felt in our hearts that a terrible crisis was past. But for my friend's peculiar tact and stern example, I would have flung the goblet at Galdino's head on his invitation to drink, and by refusing to taste the Muscatelle have discovered the dark suspicions we entertained. However, we were safe, while this modern Borgia had fallen into his own snare.
"Come, signori, why pause you thus? You seem not to have relished the wine," said our entertainer, again filling his silver cup from the fatal vase, and draining it to the dregs. "Buono! of all our Italian wines, I prefer the Muscatelle; but this, of course, I produce only on certain occasions, and to certain friends," he added, with a hideous laugh, which made the dark corners of the hall echo hollowly. My heart chilled with abhorrence of the man, and apprehension of what was to ensue.
"Croce di Malta!" muttered Marco, surveying him with a glance of stern curiosity; "his potion operates already."
"His death rests with himself—the guilt, I mean: the deed was his own doing," said I, in the same low tone.
Belcastro, lolling back in his chair, laughed and hallooed in a manner so unusual, that a number of his household crowded about the hall door, and were seen peering fearfully upon our dismal carousal. He showed all the symptoms of sudden intoxication: but the disease that was then spreading through every vein took a new and unexpected turn. Bella-donna often produces idiotcy or folly; and Belcastro became quite insane. The white froth of madness hung from his livid lips and black mustachios, and his eyes, while sparkling with all the fury of a tiger's, were glazing fast with the ghastly glare of death. He laughed boisterously: but such laughter! Regarding him more as a wild beast than a man, I thought only of what my fate might have been, and loosened my sabre in its sheath, ready to draw it the instant his fit took a dangerous turn. Castelermo clenched the hilt of his poniard, and the assembled servants shrank behind our chairs for protection.
"Ha, ha! ho, ho! the wine!—'t is like the flames of hell! O Apostoli! the signora of Belcastro—look well about ye, ye vagabonds! She would have been a capitanessa if she could; but I slashed the gay uniform of her beardless capitano! The traitress, Piozzi! poisoned, per Baccho!" and his head settled down on his breast. The white saliva ran from his mouth over his chin and white ruffled shirt; while his eyes, which were fixed on the face of the cavaliere Marco, flashed like those of a fiend rather than a mortal man. From their position, and the slanting manner in which the light fell on them, they seemed absolutely to shoot forth a blue glare from beneath his beetling brows. His visage was pale as death: all, save the scar, which was still of a dark purple hue.
"Villain!" cried he, pointing to it, and starting up in a new frenzy, "have you forgotten that your poniard disfigured me thus? Have you forgotten that night in the Strada di Toledo, at Naples?"
Marco laughed sternly, and the insane man, quailing before his firm glance, again sank down in his seat: for a time he became silent and still.